The conqueror at least; who, ere Time rendersHis last award, will have the long grass grow...Above his burnt-out brain and sapless cinders.If I might augur, I should rate but lowTheir chances: they are too numerous, like the thirtyMock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,...And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;The soul partakes the season's youth,And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woeLie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »

The sailor is frankness, the landsman is finesse. Life is not a game with the sailor, demanding the long head--no intricate game o...f chess where few moves are made in straight-forwardness and ends are attained by indirection, an oblique, tedious, barren game hardly worth that poor candle burnt out in playing it.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »